Less than Perfect
by misfire ezreal
Summary: Perfection was something she strived for but could never quite attain. Perfection was something he never even gave a second thought to. Imperfection is not great. But it's good enough. Chapter Two: She's holding on to something, and he loves to dig up secrets.
1. Chapter 1

She was unused to being held by arms other than her own. It was a sensation she had nearly forgotten but dearly missed: a warm embrace from someone who cared for her. When she had been small, toddling and clapping and happy, her mother would hold her tenderly, back before she became too wound up in politics and popularity to care for her daughter; when she had been six and brilliant and curious, and her brother had scooped her into his arms and twirled her around while she squealed in joy, back before he became too absorbed in the thrill of battle and the beckoning of duty to protect his little sister any longer.

She used to cry herself to sleep often, arms curled around her shoulders, legs drawn upwards to her chest, She would rock herself late into the night and then early into the morning, voice trembling with sobs and so, so much fright.

She was older now, too old to believe in her mother's love and too wise to hope for her brother's aid. There was no salvation that could bring peace to a shattered murderer, no god that could erase the sins she had committed in the name of peace.

So it was with mixed feelings - surprise, happiness, and the creeping unrest in the pit of her stomach called fear - that she received Ezreal's hug. It was dark outside, as it always had to be when they met, because she was a noble and he was a rebel and they were not supposed to love each other. She hadn't seen him in months; she had been away, sneaking around Noxus yet again for evidence of inherent evil that just simply wasn't there.

He didn't know that, of course; there was no possible way for him to be privy to such sensitive knowledge.

He had hugged her simply because he had missed her while she was gone, and now she was back.

Oh, she was terrified. Of losing him, of losing this, of losing her title, her family, her life. She was scared of losing so many things. Of losing everything. The more she loved him, the more she stood to lose. She would be better off to cut him out of her life completely, to turn her nose up and walk past him and pretend he meant nothing to her, like she did when she swept past the guards at the Royal Palace to hide her fear of another perilous, pointless assignment.

But Ezreal's arms were warm and strong and safe. There hadn't been anything that felt safe to her since the last night she'd slept peacefully in her childhood bed, naively faithful that her brother would keep her safe from anything and that her mother would always love her. But Ezreal had never promised her anything, had always shrugged off the honor she was shackled by, and maybe that was why he had managed to find a place in her heart all his own.

She wanted to laugh at his appearance: uncombed hair, ragged clothes, dirty boots, heart-wrenching grin.

He smelled like dusty books and felt like home.

She didn't need salvation.

She just needed him.

xoxoxox

**I deleted the old version of this because, well... It was basically a rough, rough draft of The Relic, and I prefer that this one-shot series be unrelated to my other stories. So. Yeah. On a side note, this story is actually EDITED. YES!**

**Lemme know what you think. I hope you still enjoy this one-shot-drabble thing.**

**xoxoPigTails**


	2. Chapter 2

She generally looks like a debutante. Bright, shiny blonde hair, immaculate skin, brilliant, wide smile. She holds herself properly: legs crossed, hands folded, eyes attentive, head nodding. It's like she doesn't even know what slouching is. She even cups a hand in front of her mouth to giggle politely when she's engaged in small talk. Her armor is always clean and polished, her hair is always in perfect order,and her words are witty but always politically correct, carefully construed so as to ensure she talks lots but never really says anything at all.

It's comical, really, that anyone even falls for her charade to begin with. Her smile, her words, her body language - they're al too perfect. It's like watching an actor deliver the perfect performance, only they don't honestly care at all about the show, and you can tell because everything they do or say is just a little bit _off_, a little too rehearsed. Like it's just a mechanical response.

She's holding on to something, and he loves to dig up secrets.

He still hasn't found it yet. Not after years of knowing her. It's like trying to shovel past bedrock. Some things just aren't meant to be, and even if they are, they need time to weather, to break into palpable pieces.

He's found out plenty of other things, though. For instance:

She hates shiny things. Loathes them. She complained to him privately once that she hated getting jewelry as gifts, because what was the _point_ of wearing silver or diamonds when they could fall off and get lost so easily? Oh, and they were _far_ too dull to be so highly valued, and what on _Earth_ was the point in valuing something that simply glittered prettily?

She likes spellbooks. Reads them cover to cover, not resting until she's absorbed the whole thing into her pretty, blonde head. She babbles on and on about any topic in there that caught her attention or piqued her interest. He brought her an ancient book from Shurima once. It was so worn and old and dusty that half the text on the pages was essentially illegible. She didn't care. She pieced together what she could, and went on for _days_ about how exquisite and ingenious the author's recorded spells were.

She respects Noxians. It's surprising in some ways, because she's a Crownguard, a Demacian, a sworn enemy to anything that even smells vaguely Noxian; but it's also not surprising at all, because she's a spy, and she's spent months in Noxus and years wearing a Noxian mask, and she knows that beneath the facades, they're only human, too. She doesn't make excuses for their assasins or wars. But she acknowledges their strength and determination, finds solace in the fact that they are also unwavering in the face of duty, and she respects their livelihoods as much as she does his own. When she explains it, he wonders if she's really on to something, after all.

Most importantly to him, though: She _loves_ to hear about his adventures. She envies his freedom, his lack of fealty to anything and (almost) anyone, and she longs to pursue knowledge without the shackles of appearances and justice yanking her backwards. She hangs on his every word, and gasps at every twist or turn, and begs for more when his tales are done.

So he indulges her, because watching her when he weaves his embellished stories is like watching mist fade. He can finally see the shore for what it really is.

And it's not the sandy beach she promises. Oh, no. It's jagges cliffs and deadly rocks and undercurrents, _so_ many undertows to pull you under.

And he'll admit it, it's hard not to get swept up in them, not to get drowned in her fury and fear, and it's even harder not to get swept away by her ardor, her laughter. The fire in her eyes when he fights bandits, the shivers down her spine when he fells demons. The intensity she exhumes is ridiculous, and he can't get enough of it, so he drags his tales on and on, far past the sunset and well into midnight, until the only lights outside are stars and gauntlets and bright, wide eyes looking back into his.

She doesn't lie to him, and he can sometimes see her for who she is: a girl, and a fighter, and a bundle of feelings and hopes laid bare for him to grasp. She's no debutante, no princess, and she's no charade, no hidden treasure.

She's Lux. Lux with the blue eyes and the stupid laugh and the stupider selflessness.

And he'd be lying if he said he loved her any less for it.

xoxoxox

**Thought I'd share this with you guys. I'm done with exams for a while, so I wrote a one-shot to celebrate. :) **

**xoxoPigTails**


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